


Track

by gardnerhill



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesty Challenge, Community: watsons_woes, Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:31:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D.I.D.? DID not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Track

**Author's Note:**

> For JWP 2013’s August Amnesty prompts. All seven prompts are used in the following story. Footnotes at the end.

The time is 8:36am. The place is a section of train tracks in Brooklyn, vestiges of an old freight railway line into NYC. Currently there are two people amid the cinders and clumps of dry weeds. One is standing, and one is lying across the tracks. Specifically, a dark-hooded figure is standing, and an angry ex-surgeon / ex-sober companion / current consulting detective in a smart outfit and truly stunning high-heeled boots is tied to the tracks.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Joan Watson said contemptuously. “This is pointless. Sherlock has ways of finding things out.”

The cowled entity smiled. “But my dear, will he know where you are just by looking at an unidentified section of track?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t lower me into a shark tank while you told me your entire evil plan.” Joan refused to yank or kick at the bonds securing her to the tracks, but did do a surreptitious exploration of the cords. “I’ll expire of sunstroke long before a train uses this track. At least this proves you’re not one of Moriarty’s employees. She’s an evil sociopath, but she’s smarter than a tree. Sherlock will eventually surmise where I am.”

“Let’s send him a shot of your current plight and let him figure that one out for himself, shall we?” The hooded man held up a phone – Joan’s own phone, to add insult to injury. “Say ‘help me’!”

Joan’s hands were bound by the wrists to the rail; she held up one finger on one hand for a moment.

The cowled criminal cackled evilly as he snapped the pictures. “You are right, my dear. I do have a plan, you know,” he said as he sent the images. “An evil and subtle plan.”

Joan closed her eyes. Monologuing. Why did it have to be monologuing?

***

At that very moment in the brownstone…

“You know, Clyde,” Sherlock said to the tortoise, engrossed in a bowl of Cap’n Crunch at the kitchen table, “perhaps it wasn’t the smartest thing for me to pay an old acquaintance to kidnap Joan to test her self-defense capabilities. Especially an old acquaintance who is mentally incapable of distinguishing real life from fantasy. Especially one with an unnatural fondness for melodramatic entertainment.”

Clyde crunched his kale and said nothing.

“Yes, you’re quite right, I’m worrying over nothing.” Sherlock returned to his breakfast.

***

Lest you think Sherlock is being a cold-blooded bastard to finish his bowl of Cap’n Crunch while heartlessly ignoring the picture being sent of Joan tied to a railroad track and in desperate need of assistance, it should be explained that Joan was correct in her assessment of her enemy having an arboreal-level IQ. The man fat-fingered the photo to the wrong number.

“Huh,” said the person who did receive the picture. “This isn’t good.”

***

Since it is a sin to waste the reader’s time, let us move forward 70 minutes.  (This also saves us from 70 minutes of a gloating hooded man outlining his plans for world domination to an uninterested captive audience, and the unimportant details of Holmes’ morning hygiene routine before heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.)

***

“You are correct, Ms. Kagawa,” Sherlock said, examining the canvas carefully, “this is I- Moriarty’s work,” he corrected himself. “Judging from the age of the paint, she did this 7 years ago.” He stood back. “This is not a touch-up job on an original Peto. This is a forgery, through and through.”

“It’s expert work.” The curator of the American Wing stood behind Sherlock to look at the still life. “Now we must find the original.”

Sherlock smiled a little at the grudging respect in the woman’s tone; brilliant forgers must be the pirates of the art world. “The switch most likely happened during the piece’s transportation from Madrid. Check the manifest for the number of the shipping container, the roster for the people assigned to guard –”

His phone went off.

“Excuse me.” He picked up the phone. “Ms Hudson, what do you need?”

“Sherlock, I need you to grow a brain. Failing that, get back here.”

He blinked. “Alfredo?”

Then the picture pinged on his phone.

“Oh, crumbs,” said Sherlock.

***

“…so when Matt got the picture he sent it to Adela, who sent it to Emily, who called at the brownstone and got Ms Hudson.” Alfredo Llamosa folded his arms and gave Sherlock a look that had nothing to do with being his sobriety sponsor. “I was here, I borrowed her phone and called you.”

In the next room Ms Hudson continued to set the brownstone to immaculate rights – her OCD a clear sign of her apprehension, and putting everything in order as something she could control – singing a 16th-century tavern song to herself in an anxious manner.

“And how did you reach the conclusion that I had something to do with Ms Watson’s plight?” Sherlock said blandly, outwardly calm.

“What kind of idiot ties women to railroad tracks like a Dudley Do-Right cartoon? Whose attention is he trying to get? Who seems to have a touch of the dramatic around here?” Alfredo dropped his head to fix Sherlock with his gaze. “And who’s already guilty of setting up attack scenarios to ‘test’ his partner?”

“She told you that?” Of course she would. He’d released Joan Watson the sober companion from her confidentiality requirements, and Joan Watson the consulting detective was not required to keep any of their secrets.

Alfredo shrugged. “Stakeouts are boring.”

A year ago – six months ago – he’d have been humiliated and enraged all at once, having secrets out for everyone to see. But with Alfredo and Joan, it was oddly cleansing and even now he knew he could trust everyone involved.

“… _The advice was so right it converted Sir Knight / Who all his life after drank Saturday night_ ,” Ms Hudson trolled nervously, dusting under the sofa.

“Mm. Suppose you’re right, yeah? It has gone over the line. I’ll call him off.”

It didn’t go well.

***

“You fool! You utter, utter fool! To think you thought you could control me! ME! Bwa ha ha ha ha ha ha! Take one last look at the partner YOU’VE condemned to a horrible fate!”

Joan made two more hand gestures as her nemesis took the picture.

“Now, my lovely,” the hooded man said, hunkering down. “Let me hear you beg for your life.”

***

“Plan B, then,” Sherlock said, and pushed a 7-button sequence on his phone. “In the interim, may I offer my congratulations to both of you. It is the only conclusion I can draw from your presence here during a workday for both myself and Ms Hudson. The match is impeccably chosen.”

Ms Hudson, who’d come into the room to see how the situation was going, laughed a little and pointedly did not look in Alfredo’s direction as she headed to a bookcase to straighten out the contents. Alfredo blinked, and smiled a little himself.

Ping.

Sherlock looked at the picture. “One change. Her hands.” Right hand curled, fingers and thumb not quite touching in a cylinder; left hand four fingers straight up and thumb across like a Scout salute. “American Sign Language. Letters C and B, reading for someone viewing her photo left to right, well done Watson. A clue to her location. C, B.”

All three people stared at the image. “Abandoned tracks,” Ms Hudson said. “Those weeds would be burnt back if there was regular train service, and oil stains.” She smiled a little. “At least Joan won’t get hit by a train any time soon. But she’s still at the mercy of an unstable individual.”

“That much open space?” mused Alfredo. “That’s not the city proper. More likely Connecticut or Brooklyn – and not a well-travelled part.”

C, Connecticut – B, Brooklyn. Train lines, ill-used or unused, names of those lines, names of towns near those train lines –

The GPS on Sherlock’s phone finally woke up. Brooklyn. “He hasn’t destroyed Watson’s phone, and Watson hasn’t removed the tracker I put on it,” Sherlock said. “Thank God the man’s an idiot.”

“Yeah, who would hire someone like that to do something incredibly stupid and dangerous?” Alfredo said acidly.

Train line in Brooklyn, C and B. B obviously for Brooklyn, then –

“Cross-Brooklyn Expressway,” he and Alfredo said simultaneously.

“My car’s outside, let’s go,” Alfredo said. “Sophia, call the police.”

“I’m coming too,” Ms Hudson said. “I’ve got the first-aid kit, and I can call from the back seat.”

“You’re all coming?” Sherlock was dismayed but he knew a tidal wave when he saw one.

“If you think I’m gonna miss watching Joan hand you your ass the way you deserve, you’ve got another think coming.” Alfredo was already heading out the door.

***

Joan had spent some time looking at the man’s hands, and at the sneakered feet and bedenimed legs under the bunched black robe. Cheap stuff – a bathrobe or even a Halloween costume.  The smell of grease as he’d clapped the rag over her mouth and a gun in her ribs.

“When did your parents throw you out?” she said.

The hooded, cowled figure stiffened.

“It can’t be easy,” she said in her best ‘sober companion’ voice, “supporting yourself with a fast-food job, living in a rented room. Nothing to do but watch movies all day. Knowing how bad other people think you are and wishing you could be as good at being bad as Blofield, or Dr. No, or Magneto. No one taking you seriously.”

The robed man shuddered. “No,” he whispered. “No, be quiet.”

Keep talking? Maintain the conversation? Could be dangerous. She could, of course, just lie there with her mouth shut and wait to be rescued.

“You were paid to do this.” Hearing Sherlock’s voice on the other end of the brief conversation only confirmed her suspicions. “But this meant you finally got the chance to do something colossal, something grandiose. So you took it.”

The hood nodded, shaking.

“This isn’t the way you’d hoped it would go, is it?” she said compassionately. “Maybe. Maybe you can start over. Do it right. Do it properly. You could let me up and take me prisoner again. You still have time to do it right and get your money.”

“Y’r right,” the man sobbed. He fumbled around under his robe for his jeans pocket and produced a Swiss army knife.

***

By the time Sherlock, Alfredo, Ms Hudson, and a small contingent of the NYPD converged upon the (moving) GPS spot in Brooklyn, the scenario had changed – to a white dark-haired 20something male with a bloody nose being frog-marched along the weed-choked tracks by the firm’s junior partner, keeping a fist twisted in the cheap black robe right behind his neck and a gun hanging from her other hand. “The safety’s on, Detective Bell,” Joan called to the police car and the first occupant to leave the vehicle. “I’ve learned that much. But I’d appreciate it if you took both of these into custody. Someone needs a dose of reality. I’ll come down to the station after lunch to fill out the paperwork.”

“You okay, Ms. Watson?” Det. Bell said to her, cuffing the whimpering perp.

“Weed scratches, too much sun, and I’m hungry,” Joan said, rubbing her wrists. “Other than that, fine.” Det. Bell nodded and continued bundling the man into the back of the car for the drive to the precinct.

Joan walked to Alfredo’s car; all its occupants were out. Sherlock awaited her as if he stood on the gallows.

“Joanie, are you sure you’re all right?” Ms Hudson asked. “I’ve got some ointment for those wrists, and aloe vera for your face, that’ll keep down the sunburn.”

“I’d like that, Ms. Hudson. Thank you,” Joan said. “Alfredo, thanks. Please drive me to the nearest place to eat.” Now she stood before Sherlock.  “You’re paying.”

For a moment relief showed on his face. “Naturally, since you do not have your pur–”

“For this little stunt.” Joan did not raise her voice, which remained as level and detached as when she’d dealt with him as her client. “Starting tomorrow, you will attend two group counseling sessions daily, for a month. Daily includes Saturdays and Sundays. I will accompany you if and when Alfredo is unable to do so.”

“I’m available,” Alfredo said as deadpan as she.

Joan nodded once without taking her eyes off a stricken Sherlock. “You will participate actively in these sessions, and talk freely about the poor choices you have made when under the influence. If this schedule means that you are forced to turn down requests for assistance by Captain Gregson or any of his officers because you are otherwise occupied, that’s too bad. Your monetary damages will extend not only to providing lunch for our party but dry-cleaning for my outfit and a professional polishing for the boots. And if you ever try something like this again our partnership is dissolved, permanently. Am I understood?”

“Perfectly,” he whispered, eyes never leaving hers.

“Good.” Joan got into the back seat next to Ms. Hudson.

Sherlock stood for a moment longer in the same position.

“Ass,” Alfredo said. “Handed. Too bad she didn’t just slap you, right?”

“Agreed,” Sherlock said. “We’re going to be seeing a great deal of each other for a while.”

“And talking. Don’t forget that part,” Alfredo said, a little more kindly. “So, Joan!” he called cheerily as he got into the driver’s seat. “What sounds better right now – gyros, pupusas or Korean barbecue?”  


**Author's Note:**

> Here are the Amnesty prompts and the way they were used in this story.
> 
>  **1) The Perils of Pauline:** Use an over-the-top peril or cliffhanger. (Well, duh.)
> 
>  **2) Ooops!** A mistake with consequences. (Sherlock’s.)
> 
>  **3) Words to live by:** Use one of your favorite quotes in your story. (“It is a sin to waste the reader’s time.” – Larry Niven)
> 
>  **4) Picture prompt:** [Books, Mug, Pipe, and Violin](http://www.the-athenaeum.org/art/detail.php?ID=12427) by Peto – the painting Sherlock examines at the MMoA.
> 
>  **5) Random play:** Put your MP3 player on shuffle, turn on the radio, or otherwise tune into a random stream of music. Use the fifth song in the playlist as your inspiration. (“Taking His Beer With Old Anacharsis,” a 16th-century English tavern song; Ms Hudson sings it while cleaning the brownstone.)
> 
>  **6) purple prose:** Use however this inspires you. (Villain’s response to Sherlock’s phone call.)
> 
>  **7) And where would we be without our wonderful mods?:** For this amnesty prompt, prominently use words starting with K, C, S, and E, and the numbers 07 and 836 (the latter number being the number of members as of this writing). ( Scattered Copiously and Evenly in Every Kink and Corner of the Story; the tale begins at 8:36, skips 70 minutes, forgery painted 7 years ago, 7-digit GPS code.)


End file.
